


Back to my temple

by sherbal



Series: Je ne sais quoi [2]
Category: Late Night Host RPF
Genre: Don't take it too seriously, From Andy's perspective, M/M, i made it all up okay?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-09-28 05:29:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10074290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherbal/pseuds/sherbal
Summary: Well, from Andy's perspective following the "The reason I came to work everyday "Believe me, they've been through a lot.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I've written weirder fanfic than this.  
> But trust me, they are truly amazing together as a duo (or in whatever relationship.)  
> Both of them are my inspirations in life and I love them.  
> This is only a fanfic so no hard feelings, okay?

I was nervous when the plane landed on the cold land of New York. Outside the plane window, it was snowing heavily. I didn't even bring a coat with me.  
What I had with me when I boarded the plane was only a takeaway bag of Burger King.  
I woke up at six in the morning, checked the plane schedule. And here I was.  
Your agent called me late that night, literally scolding me for being stupid enough to let you kiss me on the streets.  
He was so mad that he didn't even introduce himself in the beginning. He just yelled at me, calling me a bloody idiot. I didn't even know he was British.  
He told me we should stop this nonsense, which was a catastrophe to both of our careers. I actually wanted to tell him I agree with him. But he didn't give me the chance.  
Chill down, British buddy.  
Eventually, he calmed down, explained who he was and asked me what did I want to do.  
I said I don't know.  
I said I called my agent and she told me she saw those photos of us on the streets.  
They were offering an incredibly high price that I couldn't afford even I go out there selling my butt wouldn't be enough.

You know, when your agent yelled at me about how disastrous this whole thing was to our careers, though I agreed with him, I became less and least concerned.  
I'm not a modest man who takes others' advice carefully.  
Those damages seemed so trivial in his words.  
I remembered the time when a guest yelled at me backstage for mocking her on television, you came in and defended me and sorted the whole thing out.  
I didn't need your protection. But I did want you on my side.  
You are not my safe haven. I'm a man of the sea. I don't need a harbor for me to rest upon.  
You are my temple. You have my faith and my beliefs.  
I came back to you, kneeling down your statue to know that you are still there with me.  
And when I went out there into the world, I know you will be watching me like a god, watching my back.

I politely said fuck off to your agent and called mine to say that I didn't care this any more and I wanted to be with you no matter what.  
She said fuck a lot, but she said she was proud of me after she calmed down.

I looked at you, smiling nervously.  
"Quick question, you still want to do this, right? You can still change your mind. I won't say I don't mind. But I think I'll punch you in the face if you say no."  
You shrugged, "Of course I'm with you. A punch in my handsome face will do much damage to my career than coming out in front of dozens of paparazzi. Big deal."

You pulled your long coat from your backpack.  
I just frowned at the flight attendant, thinking about begging her to let me have the blanket.  
"Wrap up warm, Andy. We're going to the battlefield."  
"I forgot to bring anything with me."  
Your face was funny. It was a mixture of surprise and ecstasy. You bursted into laughter which was so loud that everyone around us stared at us.  
"Hey, what's so funny?"  
"You really have nothing but me. Oh my god." You couldn't even finish a sentence. "I didn't know you love me that much."  
"Shut up. I just don't like to pack."  
"You think you body fat will be enough to keep you warm in New York?" You laughed so hard that you couldn't stand up straight. Other passengers recognized us and were all gathering around us.  
"I'd expect you to wear enough clothes when you decide to come out of the closet." You said that out loud.  
"Shut up or I'll skin you and wear your white Irish skin as leather coat."  
"Alright, you keep this and I'll wear my own skin, thank you." You handed me your long coat. "I still have one in my luggage. Don't worry. It will fit. You've lost weight."

When we walked out, I couldn't help but hide my face in your long coat's collars.  
I hate being in the spotlight. All those years of playing my cards right, I didn't have to expose myself too much.  
But not now.  
I looked at you. You were like the man backstage that night.  
Your face was stern, with your jaw clenched.  
This was nothing easy to us.  
I have to say, one moment, I wanted to be a coward. I couldn't handle these.  
Dozens of paparazzi shouted unpleasant questions to me and I really did not know how to answer them.  
My eyes hurt as they kept using flashes.  
"Conan," I said, " I..."  
I wanted to tell you we didn't have to do this right here.

You looked down at me, with calm coral blue eyes.  
You didn't say anything.  
You just grabbed my hand.

We never did this before. Well, probably in some of our silly sketches.  
I've seen men holding hands anywhere in LA. And I have to say it's still slightly disturbing for me to do this.

You held my hand like you were taking the lead.  
I chose to follow your pace.  
You didn't walk very fast. Your long legs confidently took each step.  
You smiled at me and the paparazzi like you were showing off.  
"Look, everybody! This is my very own Andy Richter."  
"Oh, you were saying? Check out my own Andy!"  
"Yeah, I know. Have you seen my Andy Richter? He's mine now, by the way."  
You didn't speak a thing but your face looked like you were bragging about having me by your side.  
I smiled too.  
"Hey, how are you? What tall guy? Oh, you mean Conan. Yeah yeah, we're together now. Anyway, how's your mom?"

I only stayed with you for two days before I went back to LA to finish the filming.  
Everyone was not pleased about me not telling the truth.  
Irene said how could she be so stupid of not seeing this. It was so obvious that she was going to die of shame.  
"So who's the top?" She handed my coffee.  
"Hey, I don't want to talk about this." I looked at her in the mirror.  
"Okay, I think I already knew." She smiled and left the dressing room.  
"What?" I shouted out behind her.  
"If I can't see that, I must be blind." Her voice echoed in the hall.

Everyone told me after they punched me that they were moved by our photos.  
They said it was so romantic that notebook can kiss our ass.  
I wouldn't say that. But well, I did use notebook paper to wipe my ass when I had no toilet paper.  
My assistant sent me the papers and articles about us.  
I looked good in them.  
But probably needed to lose more weight.  
The girl told me she loved the one you put your hand on my face while the umbrella you were holding was going to be blown away by the wind.  
You looked like you didn't care about getting wet.  
It was only me you were seeing at that time.  
Well, I didn't like this one very much. Because I was kinda trying to rescue the umbrella there and I wasn't even looking at you. I was looking at the fucking umbrella.  
I actually like the one you were holding my hands in the airport.  
Your coat was tight on me and you were just wearing a thin jacket.  
We looked like a comedy duo, which was what we did in the past ironically.  
Of course I won't know that several years after, Will Annett took our patent and did this with his friend Bateman.

After things were settled in LA, I packed my stuff and moved to New York agin, like what I did almost twenty years ago.  
It didn't take much time for me to get used to the temperature.  
I've been here, duh.  
But moving in with you can be a new experience.  
You had a show to run. And I was currently unemployed.  
This could mean a lot of problems when it comes to normal couples.  
Like, you go home all tired and worked up, and I didn't cook the meal, and you blamed me for sitting here all day doing nothing even can't cook you a goddamn dinner. I get mad at you too for you being an asshole and I'm not your maid.  
And we can solve this at the first and second time this happens but as time goes by, we can't put up with each other and we break up.  
Well, things really don't happen that way.  
Okay, maybe a little bit.  
At first, everything was going on well and we call this the honeymoon period.  
I went on your show and we had several interviews done.  
Someone blessed us and someone hated us. But we didn't care much about this.  
Larry King said fuck three times when he saw us kissing backstage.  
I thought he was going to have a heart attack or something. I've never seen Larry that excited.  
He patted me on the shoulder and gave me his famous Larry King look, which he used all the time, basically a creepy smile which should be warm and understanding.  
"I like you, Andy. How did you end up with Conan? I mean, I know you worked with him, but that's not the relationship I was thinking about."  
I said shit happened.  
And Larry was so interested in the story of you sexually harassing me back in the late 90s, which was all made up mainly by you.

Articles mentioned us being together and news about us.  
And we suddenly became the new American sweethearts, beating the Pitt couples.  
We were bathed in flash lights and probably rainbow light.  
We talked about this, both agreeing to keep a low profile.  
But the media didn't stop here.  
There are roles coming to me, mainly likable gay characters.  
This really improved.  
In the past, all roles I got was named fat fuck.  
But after four years of giving a try in the acting business, I think I'm not entirely suitable for acting.  
People like muscular handsome guys which I was nothing near. Alright, I worked with muscular handsome guys. That's the only way I get near to this concept.  
I enjoyed writing more.  
You supported this for you didn't want me to go out there crawling under someone's feet begging for the money to do the show.  
You've been there, done that. And you didn't want me to do the same.  
One night you looked at me seriously with your coral blue eyes.  
"Andy," you said with earnest, "I want to make a show for you. Those cheap fuck comedies don't deserve you."  
I said yeah that would be great, thank you for saying these and you can't actually call my work cheap fuck comedies.  
You sighed, walking into the study to do your research.

Things seemed great during the honeymoon period.  
But problems caught us off guard.  
The things we argued about were nothing big, like who should do the laundry and I want to order pizza you want Chinese food.  
But those small trivia were like tiny wedges, quietly squeezing into our life.  
We talked less and less. You were busy fighting for more budget on your show and I was stuck in my writing project and was pretty defeated.  
Although you said that you don't want me to beg for things from Hollywood superiors any more, I still had been calling people and seeking opportunities.  
We had our own trouble I think.  
But we were both arrogant people who didn't spend much time thinking in other's shoes.  
I called anyone I could find to take a look at my script and everyone seemed so busy suddenly to give a shit.  
One woman said she would give it a go back from her vacation. I patiently waited three weeks before I called her and she told me she didn't like it.  
She didn't even say the title right.  
I knew she probably didn't read it at all.  
When the false game died down, nobody cared about a fat guy in his early forties.  
At least you cared but I grew so used to it that I didn't find it very helpful.

We had a big fight one night. I don't even remember what was that for. But I remember you said I'm a sore loser and this rubbed me up in the wrong way.  
We both knew it was pure truth.  
But the truth hurt sometimes.  
I said you were an asshole who thought he had some success. But you were just a cheap talk show host having to do fake laugh every night to make a living.  
We hurt each other quite badly.  
We never did this physically.  
But words hurt more than fists.  
I rushed out of the door, staying with a friend that night.  
You didn't call me.

And when I finally gathered the courage to admit that I shouldn't say this and shouting abuse at each other could solve nothing, I came home.  
You were sitting on the sofa, not saying a word.  
I apologized.  
And you said, you think we shouldn't continue this. You were tired.  
I was angry.  
You were the one who brought me back to New York and now you wanted me to leave?  
You said you didn't drag me here, remember? I chose to come here with you.  
It was my fucking choice.  
This got me. It felt like a punch in the face that someone you loved finally changed into someone you hate.  
You said I had said that I would probably hate you after we were together and you said I was right.  
You humiliated me in this very flat we lived in.  
I broke down.  
I packed all of the stuff I could carry with me that night and moved out.  
You just sat on the sofa, silently watching me leaving.

Next day, you didn't call.  
I thought it was really over. That you meant what you said and it was not angry talking.  
I came back to collect my things when you went to work and left the keys on the kitchen table.  
There was no need to leave a letter. That's gay.  
At least I had the decency to pull myself up together and left with dignity.

I thought about you.  
A lot.  
I still couldn't get over the fact that you were such a fucking asshole.  
Now, here I was, single and a loser.  
I didn't even know whether to date men or women or just have a kitten and die alone with it eating my rotten corpse.  
I couldn't turn on the television at night for I was afraid I would see your face at twelve o'clock.  
I knew you would carry on with your life you fucking heartless bastard.  
I was on my own.  
My God turned against me and banished me to hell.  
It was like going to heaven for defending a god and find out that there is no virgin only dudes.  
Dudes are fine. I think. I didn't know how to think.  
I still mistook tall red-headed man on the streets as you. I saw a tall guy with red hair in Starbucks one afternoon and I had to hide in the toilet so long for getting some control over myself and be a man about it.  
I walked past that tall guy, giving him the finger.  
I didn't mean to do this to a complete stranger.  
I just thought he was you.  
I apologized to him and he recognized me.  
He even gave me his phone number.

This was insane. The world knew about us not being together.  
My friends asked what was wrong and I said shit happened.  
I met Larry once and he asked what happened.  
I said shit, you were a heartless bastard.  
I couldn't lie to Larry.  
He had that creepy smile that you couldn't lie in front of his face.  
He said some comforting words. I thought this was saved for his twelfth wife.  
I said shit, Larry. What am I going to do?  
He said be yourself.  
I said be a big loser?  
He said, be a big loser then.  
Larry's advice was shit.

I was thinking about moving back to LA.  
In fact, two days later, I moved all of my stuff back to LA.  
I found a new flat.  
I wanted a new life, though there was no new life for a far guy in his early forties in Hollywood.  
I went to parties I didn't want to.  
I went to the gym despite the fact that I only wanted to eat pizzas 24/7.  
I grew thinner.  
Still chubby but I could fit into my old jeans.  
I still got little work to do.  
I was being the big loser Larry told me to.

I was on YouTube. How amazing these things were these days!  
You could see kitten videos on it and don't have to pay five bucks.  
One day, I saw an old interview of you and me.  
I think it was in 1995. We were at a x game invent.  
We were both wearing our coolest sunglasses and talking shit to the journalist lady.  
We looked so young.  
And so thin.  
You kept looking at me during the interview that you wasn't paying much attention to the lady. You looked like you had more interest in how I took the joke than the fucking journalist.  
It was no more than fifteen years ago and look what happened to us both.  
I broke down for the first time since I moved to LA.  
Later I have to wipe my laptop clean for I knocked over my mug on it.

I was thinner. Difficult to even call me chubby now.  
I don't think I've been of average weight before.  
But being fit really made me feel good about myself.  
I still got little work except doing a little dubbing for animations.  
I still had nobody to come home to.

One day I got a call from my agent, who I hadn't heard from since this June. She said I've got an offer to do a detective comedy.  
I was over the moon.  
There wasn't even an audition. There was no competition.  
My agent told me the producers tailed this role specifically for me.  
I mean, I know people do this to Brad Pitt or Scarlet Johansson. But definitely not to an ordinary guy in his early forties who got a little bit thinner though.  
I read the pilot script which was written by Matt Jefferson.  
I didn't know who this guy was. But I really liked his style.  
It was funny and witty and I felt like I would write it exact same way as he did.  
This was to good to be true.  
I got in contact with the producer. We had some pleasant conversations.  
I asked him why he chose me to do this role.  
He said I had that charm, the grace and je ne sais quoi  
I wondered what did that French phrase mean.  
He said he actually didn't know. He thought it was a French compliment.  
I laughed and then we left this behind.

Life was great.  
I had a show to do and I was no longer the sad fuck that spent most of his time writing things that no one wanted to read.  
I almost met everyone involved in this show except that writer Matt Jefferson.  
They told me he was busy.  
But I only wanted to call him to appreciate his writings.  
I gave up after the third attempt of mentioning him to the producer.  
I guessed he was just weird.  
All writers are weird in some way.

Then one day, when I was doing nothing, I saw a clip of your interview. I usually turn off the tv when your face came up but I was busy eating my breakfast so I didn't have the chance.  
The lady asked you how you felt about me being in the new show of NBC.  
You said I deserve this and I had that je ne sais quoi.  
That French word both the producer and me didn't know.  
I think my head would explode at that time.  
With so much fucking information.  
I called the producer.  
I asked him whether you were involved in this show at any point.  
He went silent for a while.  
I was furious. I yelled the same question to him almost three times before he stared talking again.  
"I'm sorry, Andy. I can't tell you. "  
I said, he didn't write the fucking script, did he?  
He said I needed to calm down.  
I said no, and I ended the call.

Then, with my finger shaking, I dialed your number.  
You picked up almost immediately.  
"Hello." You said.  
Hearing your voice was like having a bucket of ice water poured on me from head to toe.  
I suddenly lost all of my courage.  
"Are you that Matt Jefferson?" Saying this sentence almost took all of my strength.  
"Yes." You answered simply.  
I could almost picture your face now. Frowning at the air, with one hand in your hair.  
"You did more than writing, right? What else did you do?"  
You went silent for a moment, preparing your speech.  
"Do you remember the time I said I wanted to make a show for you? That's my promise."  
"You don't have to do this. I don't need your help. And I don't care about your promise."  
"I owe you, a lot. This is the least I could do for you." You chose your words carefully while saying them slowly.  
"You don't have to pity me. You think you owe me? You're wrong. You owe me nothing. To be honest, even if you owe me, I don't want your favor. I don't need you to do this for me secretly without even putting your name out there. You think you're making a sacrifice? You think you're such a saint to make a show for me behind my back for not hurting my feelings? You're fucking wrong. What makes you think that I can still gladly take your favor and do this show? "  
"Do this or not. It's your show now. I'm not pitying you. Money has been spent. All things were set. I hope at least this would not be a bad investment."  
I sat down on my sofa. You cold-hearted son-of-a-bitch.  
"If you don't mind, I have a show to tape. Call me when you've made up your mind."  
You ended the call.

I never felt so tied up. This whole amazing business turned into an earthquake suddenly.  
I was like a single mother holding her dead child in her arms, being stuck under the ruins not knowing what to do.  
I had no choice. There are hundreds of people in the show now.  
I can't just quit.  
This could be other people's dream too.

I waited three hours to call you. I had two hours to prepare what was I going to say and one hour to have a cold bath.  
When I dialed the number, I forgot my prepared speech.  
I just felt rage and frustration.  
You picked up, after the fourth beep.  
"I thought you might take longer time to think about it." You said.  
"I don't have much of a choice, do I?" I was repressing my anger as best as I can.  
"Good. I'll see you this Saturday at production meeting. I'm the executive producer."  
Both of us said nothing, waiting for the other one to end the call.  
"You just have to make this ugly, right?" I said to the speaker phone with my eyes closed.  
You said, "You make me to."  
I think both of us ended the call that time.

I refused to come to the production meeting. My agent called me thirty times to talk me into it.  
"He's an ass. At least he's the only ass who can give you a show." She said.  
She went straight into my flat that Saturday morning, watching me taking a shower and dressing up. This was creepy but I didn't have the mood to protest.  
She drove me to the office, patting me on the back to show her little sympathy.

I took as much time as possible to get to the office at twentieth floor.  
I waited by the elevator, counting the people coming out of it. I thought if exactly three people came out of that elevator, I would get in there,  
Five, two, six, four...  
Finally three women came out of the elevator, and I could persuade myself with hard figures to get in.  
There was no one in it. So I felt pretty relaxed.  
When the door was about to close, someone squeezed in.  
You know who that was?  
It was fucking you.

Your face turned dead when you recognized me.  
I couldn't even bother to say hi.  
But the door closed behind you and you were still facing me, standing exactly at your position.  
This was getting uncomfortable.  
Somehow, you said, "You are so thin."  
You sounded unpleasant.  
I said, "You don't like that? I don't know you have a thing for fat fuck."  
You closed your eyes, inhaled deeply and turned back to face the doors.

The meeting was boring. We sat on opposite sides of the table and you didn't even look at me once during this whole thing.  
I didn't even know why I needed to be there.  
To be exhibited as the big loser whose ex-lover generously gave him a show to make him feel good?

Things just didn't end there.  
I left as soon as this whole mess ended.  
It was bloody raining outside and my agent left early.  
For Christ's sake, why did she have a family to look after?  
This woman left to pick up her kids from summer camp.  
I stood in the lobby, waiting for my taxi.  
I waited for about twenty minutes and this cabbie called me to say he couldn't come.  
Why do things have to be so messed up for me?  
And then you and some people we worked with came out of the elevator, saw me standing there in the lobby, yelling to my phone for a fucking taxi.  
Joe, the associate producer said he could give me a ride home.  
Well, I certainly didn't expect I had to sit at the backseat of his car with you and another staff.  
I tried to stay quiet. Just get through this shit and be home.  
When the car stopped at one crossroad to wait for the light to turn green, I looked outside the window to convince me that I wasn't there, I was in my home, watching kitten videos.  
Then I realized this was actually the crossroad we kissed.  
I was so afraid that old memories started to rush back to my brain and I quickly looked down at my hands.  
I heard your sigh. It was brief and quiet.  
I only noticed this because I heard your sigh a lot in the past.  
You sighed when you couldn't earn more budget for the show.  
You sighed when you didn't do well enough at a sketch.  
You sighed when you and me were ignoring each other after we fighter for small nothing.  
You probably recognized this place, too.  
The coffee shop there was still the same. But we could never go back.

You went back to New York to do your thing.  
I stayed in LA to film the first episode of my show. Or you could call your show if you like.  
I was still angry with you.  
So angry that I couldn't read the script during certain time when I remembered you wrote this.  
Joe said you were to guest in this pilot before you changed your mind.  
I wanted to say I don't care, it's your fucking show and you can do whatever you want with it.  
But I didn't want to say this to the sweet Joe.  
I shouldn't drag others into our feud.  
It was about you and me, no matter what.

Doing it was easier than I imagined. At least I looked a little bit good in it.  
But I thought I wouldn't be in next season.  
This was my bottom line.  
You wrote me a wife, a red-headed annoying wife who knew nothing about her husband doing PI work out there instead of balancing the sheets.  
Well, that was ironic.  
You knew what I was doing when we were together and you didn't give a fuck.

After finishing the whole shooting work, we had to promote this show together.  
Of course all those shitty papers and website journalist were going to ask about our failed relationship and why we chose to work together after we broke up.  
And of course we both said we were still good friends and just things didn't work out at that time.  
We lied to those people blatantly.  
I couldn't even look at you when you were sitting next to me.  
One woman shouted at us to hug to make a good friendship photo, I didn't know what to do.  
I glared at her with dead eyes.  
You took me into your arms.  
I followed your lead as always.  
You were always the one who took the lead.  
I was always the one who followed.  
This should be a good photo. I pushed you away when they were satisfied.  
You pulled your professional smile at me.  
We were never going back together.

We stayed at the same hotel.  
We had a big party that night.  
I still had a little question of why everyone felt nothing was wrong between us, that they actually believed we were still good friends.  
Was I really that good an actor who could hide his disgust completely?  
I drank too much that one of the staff had to help me back to my room.  
He sat me down on the bed and I pushed him away to vomit in the toilet.  
I felt like I vomited my stomach out of my body.  
Then that nice guy gave me a glass of water and a clean towel when I was sitting on the bathroom floor crying like a child.  
I said to him, I was so fucked up.  
He said nothing, wiping my face clean for me.  
I said to him, I was such a big fucking loser.  
He said, it was okay, in your voice.  
When the mist in front of my eyes cleared, I saw you kneeling there with a towel in your hand.  
I think I was trying to push you out of my room at that time.  
But remember? I was fucked up. I had no strength even to stand up without holding onto something.  
You said something I couldn't remember.  
You looked at me with your coral blue eyes.  
I could only remember I woke up next morning in my bed with a huge headache.  
I asked for some Advil. My assistants brought them to me and told me you left this morning.  
I didn't know whether it was you last night. Probably I was just hallucinating things and wiped my own face and put myself to bed like an adult last night.

I was at a party one night.  
The show really brought some public attention to me so I got more invitations to private parties than before.  
Sometimes I would sit there, sipping my champagne and looking at beautiful women.  
I think I like chicks.  
I heard a group of women behind me talking about my show.  
To be completely honest with you, I was flattered.  
Then I heard your name and this upset me and I was just about to stand up and leave them.  
I heard one girl said, you traded your show with NBC to renew the next season of my show.  
I jumped up and asked her what did she say, in an unpleasant way.  
She said you would let your show being pushed to 12:05 in exchange for NBC booking a new season of my show.  
You were crazy.  
You heartless bastard.  
You were so crazy to do such stupid outrageous things.  
I called you in the backyard.  
"I don't fucking need a second season. Stop whatever you are fucking thinking about!" I had to shout because the music was too loud even in the backyard.  
You said, "you know."  
I said, "when should I know then? Until you die and I read it in your diary? You stupid fuck."  
You then fucking said, New York was snowing now.  
You, fucking, said, New York was snowing now.  
What should I say about that? Telling you that LA was still hot as shit?  
I said "I don't need a second season, even if you give it to me with a golden elephant, I won't have it."  
And I almost threw my phone into the pool.  
You stupid bastard.

I called Jonathan to ask if it was true.  
He said you didn't have much of a choice.  
The management didn't give you a chance. They would move you to 12:05 no matter what.  
Bargaining for my show was your only request.  
You would move to 12:05 without making a fuss if they renewed my show.  
I asked him to pass you my word that I had other project to do and I didn't have time for the second season of your show. You could use your bargaining chip to fight for something else, something for yourself.  
Jonathan said to me when I was about to hung up. "You know he loves you."  
He sounded sad.  
"I know." I said without even noticing myself saying it.  
It was like someone else hacking into my brain and made me say these words.  
I said, "He shouldn't do this for me. I don't worth it."

After the call, I felt a strange sense of guilty and depression.  
You were my god, my abandoned god, who still watched my back after I left your temple and crushed your church.  
You gave me your blessings when I didn't need them.  
You gave me honey and milk when I was too arrogant to accept them.  
You gave me a clean towel when I was vomiting my stomach out.  
After three years, I finally let go of the angry side of me.  
All three years I couldn't bear to look at you, to hear your voice, to know what you were doing at the time.  
I was so angry with you for letting me go easily.  
We were both imperfect and both of us led to our separation.  
I couldn't make it look like it was all your faults.

A year after, I heard you left NBC.  
You were banned from television for six months.  
I got a call from Jeff. I hadn't heard from him for years.  
He said you were about to start a tour around the country.  
He said you were not good.  
He said you were taking medicine now.  
He said you needed me.  
He almost begged me to call you, just asking how you are.

I did.  
I called you, asking if you needs a sidekick, just temporarily of course.  
You said if I had any recommendations.  
I said, how about a thin guy named Andy Richter? Though he may have less weight. But he's probably a little bit good at being your sidekick.  
You said yes, could he come to New York to have meetings.  
I said, he would be there this Friday.

We were settled into the old habit.  
For a moment, I thought I was still twenty seven, just met you in your crappy little office.  
Me and a bunch of your writers came to your house every morning, discussing the details of your tour.  
The day was filled with laughter and pizzas.  
We left at night, leaving you alone in your world.  
I was so grateful that we all pretended that nothing happened between us and these guys didn't leave me alone with you.  
I felt better when we could talk to each other being in the crowds.  
I couldn't look at you in the eyes.  
But at least, I could speak to you with my eyes glued to the papers I was holding.

There was one night, I was desperately trying to polish a joke that wasn't quite good.  
I didn't notice other writers left.  
I thought they were eating spaghetti in the dinning room.  
When I got up from the sofa in your study, I noticed there was no one else.  
It was just you, cooking in the kitchen.  
This was extremely awkward.  
You didn't know I was here because you were humming a silly song while cooking something with peas.  
You would never know how much I missed this.  
I stood there, persuading myself to move to the door and leave.  
You turned back to grab a plate or something. And you saw me standing here like a fool.  
You looked panicking for a moment and then you smiled at me.  
"Staying for dinner? I've made some pea soup. I think it tastes not bad."  
I wanted to say no thank you.  
But I fucking nodded.  
Probably I missed this so much.  
We sat on the opposite of the dining table, drinking our pea soup.  
I didn't know why it tasted bitter.  
I was even thinking about you probably poisoned me.  
We didn't speak.  
We ate our soup slowly, until you said, it was shit, just leave it.  
I laughed and dropped my spoon.  
I said you were a rubbish cook. I didn't know how you fed yourself up theses years.  
You said, "Look who's saying. You've lost half of your weight."  
I said it was because the sight of you made me sick theses years.  
We both laughed.  
And then we stopped.  
I looked into your eyes not knowing what to do.  
I didn't like where this was going.  
I said I should get back to my hotel.  
You agreed.  
I gathered my things and ran out of the door like a bat out of hell.  
You called my name from behind when I was waving at a taxi.  
I was so afraid to turn around.  
You ran to me, giving me my hotel room card I forgot.  
I said thank you and you went back in.  
I think we both didn't know what to do at that time.

The tour began pretty soon.  
We traveled every two days.  
It was exhausting.  
You looked stressful. We all did.  
You couldn't control letting the bad side of you win.  
You yelled at me, your assistant, almost everyone.  
You said leave you alone when I tried to ask if you are okay.  
I think I didn't fell hurt that much.  
It was just you under all of these stresses.  
I learned to care not that much.

One evening, you hit your head on the floor when you ran into the audience.  
You said you were fine after you got onto your feet.  
But I saw you were struggling to hide your pain with a joke.  
You were talking nonsense at that time.  
I gestured to Jeff to end the show.  
You was about to protest but you couldn't speak much.  
I got on the ambulance with you to go to the hospital.  
I said "Don't speak and I'll talk to you."  
I told you jokes and you smiled a little.  
When I ran out of jokes, I started to tell you what I did these four years.  
I was so afraid you could die.  
But I had to act strong for letting you know everything was okay.  
When I thought no one was looking, I cried with my face covered in my hands.  
You struggled to pat me on the shoulder and said, "Richter, better wrap up warm. We're going to the battlefield."  
You said I could wear your coat and you would wear your skin.  
I couldn't control my tears.

You were fine and you didn't die. Three days later you came back to continue your tour.  
I think there was something changed.  
You were less anxious and you took stress more smoothly than before.  
You said encouragements to the staff and were kinder to the fans.  
I thought probably it was because something in your brain was cured after you hit your head.  
We ended the tour in a relaxed way.  
Everything seemed natural when it ended.  
Everyone hugged each other.  
I went to your dressing room to say something to you. I didn't know what to say exactly.  
It was an impulse to say anything to you.  
You stood up from your chair when you saw me by the door.  
"Great job, buddy." I said.  
"Yeah, both of us did great." You smiled.  
As I didn't know what to say next, thought there was so much to say.  
I hugged you.  
You curled your arms around me so tight that it was hard to breath.  
"I'll miss you." I said while still in your arms.  
You said, "Of course you will."  
You let me go, patted me on the shoulder.  
"Any chance of working together in the future?"  
I said probably.  
"I'll fly back to LA tonight. Got a cereal commercial to do. Sorry about the after party."  
I shook your hand.  
It was incredibly warm.  
"Goodbye, Richter. Don't eat too much cereal."  
"Goodbye, you tall bastard. Don't hit your head again. You've just become a little bit normal. People like you this way."  
"I'm not normal. What people? I won't be nice to children or fluffy polar bears."  
"Yes, you are."  
"Okay, I am."  
END

 

 

 

Or is it?  
Two weeks later you moved to LA to do your show in TBS.  
I came to your new house with a bottle of red wine. Then stayed over for the night.  
And the night after.  
And many nights following.  
We drank all of your stock.  
One weekend, when we were incredibly drunk, we got married.  
I'm back with my temple, sleeping under the feet of your statue.  
Well, that's a bad metaphor.  
But I do sleep near your Emmys.  
They compare us to Ellen and Portia.  
I'd rather not.  
Firstly, I don't have good taste in interior decorations and you don't have that much of a budget on your show.  
And we are not vegans. We eat chicken salad and Subways for lunch.  
Most importantly, we are adopting.  
The story should end here.  
We still have small quarrels sometimes. When you are being a dick and I'm being a jerk.  
But we can always sort this out eventually.  
We learn from our past experiences that we should stop hating each other and talk about our feelings openly.  
We don't have another twenty year to waste.  
Anyway, if Andy Richter could control the universe, he would not be a manual writer, nor a PI, or a squirrel on an island near Africa. He would choose to be the one he is today.  
End


End file.
